Evening at Luigi's
by lbc
Summary: Wilson is now home from the hospital. He and House have a major confrontation. Conclusion of story. Rating for language as well as intimacy.
1. Chapter 1

Title: An Evening at Luigi's

By: lbc

Pairing: Wilson/House

Rating: G for now

Disclaimer: I would love to own these characters, but I don't.

Permission to Archive: No

Genre: suggestions of slash

Summary: Wilson is shot.

Note: This is short, could be developed more, but I'm new to the writing in this fandom so it's probably not worth it.

Greg House limped into the Emergency Room of Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital as fast as his aching leg could carry him. His suit, never terribly neat, was now covered in blood . . . James Wilson's blood. The two men had decided to go to one of their favorite restaurants, Luigi's, primarily because the younger man had claimed it was his treat. They had just started to enter the establishment when a man had stopped them. It had all happened so fast that it was a blur in House's mind.

Never able to keep his sarcasm to himself, somehow House had provoked the man which resulted in the two doctors confronting a gun, pointed at their bodies. Although the unknown man was clearly angry at the outspoken House, it was James Wilson's body which shielded his friend's when the gun went off.

Oblivious to the running feet as the assailant fled, House immediately began emergency procedures for his friend. Pulling open his clothes, it was clear that the bullet was still in the bleeding body, somewhere in the abdominal area. Thanks to helpful customers inside the restaurant, an ambulance was immediately dispatched to the site. House insisted on accompanying his friend in the ambulance.

Standing above the operating theatre looking down at the surgical team, working to save Wilson's life, Greg House's face was a mirror of despair and misery. He had known James Wilson since their university days. Even though there was almost a decade between them in years, Wilson had breachedHouse's vaunted barriers to become a valued friend. Wilson had become everything to him - - even more important than Stacey, but he would never tell him that.

The mere thought that Wilson would not live through the night so that he could even attempt to tell him of his importance, drove the scruffy looking man into deeper despair.

Suddenly, there was a great deal of commotion in the room below. The heart monitor had gone flat line. House's knuckles went white as the team fought for the life which was so important to him. From out of nowhere, Lisa Cuddy appeared next to House's side, but neither one acknowledged the other. House kept his entire attention on the efforts below - - it was as if his inattention would somehow end the effort to save Wilson's life. When sinus rhythm returned after several attempts at defibrillation, House's head dropped to his chest in total exhaustion. A gentle hand touched his arm; only then did House register the presence of the hospital administrator. House's blue eyes turned to look at the womanwith whomhe had done battle with so many times. The look in those eyes made Cuddy flinchat the emotion embedded there.

Not knowing what to say, the small woman fell back on her training. "I'm sorry about Doctor Wilson. Dr. Meadows has given me a full briefing on the extent of his injuries if you would like me to tell you?"

House shook his head; his eyes dull and glazed, "My friend's heart just stopped for 32 seconds; I don't need to know any more than that."

House turned back to look down at the procedure which was nearing completion. Realizing that House had completely forgotten her presence, Cuddy continued to watch as well.

Three hours and 22 minutes later, James Wilson was in ICU hooked up to the myriad of machines that monitored his condition. Greg House sat next to him, waiting. He had not left his friend's side since the unconscious man had been brought to hiscubicle in ICU. Not even the police, demanding to know what had occurred during the shooting, aroused House from his vigil.

Cuddy had stopped by several times, more for House's benefit than to check on Wilson's condition. She had already put ICU on notice that she was to be kept aware of any changes. In their common past, Cuddy had been close to House but only briefly. House always made it hard for anyone to get close to his bristly nature, but James Wilson had done it. Cuddy had been there when House had sufferedhis infarction. She had followed his medical surrogate's wishes when she had asked for a medical procedure which saved her lover's life but left him in constant pain. Cuddyknew that this decision had cost Stacey everything,just asit was James Wilson, who had stepped in and kept Gregory House alive.

The two men never spoke of that time, but Wilson had taken several months leave from his duties at a hospital in the west to bethere forHouse . A tremor of fear shimmered through Cuddy as she watched the obviously exhausted diagnostician sit watching his friend, in tune with every nuance of change.

"Why don't you get some rest? I'll stay with him."

At first, there wasn't areaction from the slender body then House turned slightly and stared, as if he was aware of Cuddy's presence for the first time. Shaking his head, he turned back toobserve Wilson.

Cuddy walked over and for a moment reached over, for a moment, to touch the man lost in thought and despair then let her hand drop. For Greg House, this was going to be a very long night, and no amount of comfort or company could help in the least.

Sighing, Cuddy turned and left the room.

The End?


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Evening At Luigi's, Part 2

By: lbc

Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: G

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these characters, but I don't.

Summary: Wilson is shot and House feels guilt.

James Wilson slumbered. Does one really "slumber" when you are unconscious from a possible mortal wound in your abdominal area? Perhaps, I'm already dead and I just don't know it.

Enough of that.

Gradually James Wilson could acknowledge to his almost conscious self that he was hearing noises . . . well, really voices - - from time to time. He though he could make out House's "ducklings" once in a while. Certainly he could recognize Cuddy's voice and even once, he thought he heard Stacy Warner's, but the voice he was longing to hear - - he didn't.

Fighting the tremendous pounding in his head, the cacophony of machine noises that surrounded him, and the soothing and not so soothing sounds of unknown voices, James Wilson fought to break free of the blackness that surrounded him, but he soon found the effort too much . . . too much to overcome as the heaviness of his eyelids seemed to overwhelm his pain-ridden body. Besides, what was the difference, if the one person whose voice he wanted to hear more than anything, wasn't there?

James Wilson . . . day 3 . . . returned to the dark cocoon of unconsciousness.

Greg House sat on a chair nearby his friend's white-sheeted, sterile hospital bed. Perhaps, it was perfectly appropriate that the bed be so stark white because it certainly matched Wilson's handsome face . . . even after four pints of 0 positive blood.

House leaned his pain-filled leg on his cane, but eventually even that pain was not enough. Normally, House was not a masochist. He certainly wasn't into pain . . . as his frequent use of Vicodin testified to, but somehow . . . somehow, somewhere in his exhausted and guilt-ridden mind he told himself that if he suffered pain then Wilson would somehow be absolved of the need to do so. So House suffered, but not always silently.

Starting on his third day of waiting by Wilson's side after his friend had been shot outside of Luigi's, House looked like hell and felt it, but, just as with the pain, the tired man kept telling himself that it was worth it. James Wilson - - Jamie, his friend and former lover was worth it.

Reaching up to place a thin hand near to Wilson's right arm, House stopped as he heard the heavy clip-clop of some woman's shoes. Looking up with eyes much like the soulful eyes of a basset hound, House saw Cameron. Sighing but not too obviously, House let his eyes droop closed. The woman had been relentless over the last 3 days. It was nice of her to frequently check on Wilson and even more annoying of her to inquire about House's health, but what the hell was wrong with the woman, couldn't she see that he was fine . . . fine that is except that he was dying little by little as his best friend and most trusted colleague clung to life . . . and all . . . all because one Gregory House COULD NOT KEEP HIS MOUTH SHUT?

Cameron stood for a moment, looking at Wilson's chart then she looked at House, saying with only a faint whine, "How are you?"

The need to scream came to the forefront as House badly wanted to scream at the woman, "I'm fine, you simpering woman; I'm not the one with the wound in my belly; can't you see I want to be alone with my friend?", but he only yelled in his mind and said calmly almost monotonously, "Just fine; little tired but that's to be expected."

"I'll sit with Dr. Wilson, if you would like to get some coffee or freshen up."

For the briefest moment, House felt gratitude towards the woman, but the only thing he could manage was a sad smile, and his usual sarcasm, "You tryin' to tell me, I stink?"

A faint tinge of red colored the pale face, but Cameron held firm. "I just thought you might feel better. You don't want to collapse before Dr. Wilson wakes up, do you?"

Grateful for Cameron's confidence in Wilson's ability to fight off the godawful devastation a bullet can do to a person's insides, House shook his head and replied, "I'll be fine. After all, I'm a diagnostician and if I can't figure what my symptoms are telling me, who can?"

Cameron's face said it all, she knew she was defeated. When it came to stubbornness, no body could beat Greg House so she decided that retreat was the better part of valor. Taking one more look at the unconscious Wilson, she nodded and left.

Hour after hour ensued. Once again the police showed up to try and question one of the three individuals involved in the shooting outside of Luigi's two nights before. Wilson was "unavailable"; the shooter was unknown, so that left Greg House the best bet for information.

It wasn't that Greg House didn't want the dark-coated, almost featureless man caught; he did, but he didn't want to leave his friend's side, just to answer a bunch of questions. Who knew what could happen in that short period of time? The first day the police had tried to question House, but his mind would not work. He couldn't recall a thing except the blood that had been flowing from his friend's body. Even in the ambulance with the paramedics doing their best, it seemed as if the blood would never be under control. In the brief moments of sleep since that horrifying scene in time, House's mind replayed, over and over, the sharp words and the loud booming of the gun. Wilson's wide-open dark eyes and slight gasp were forever imprinted on House's memory.

Lost in thought, House smelled rather than heard Stacy Warner enter the room. She had always worn a rather heavy, sophisticated kind of scent. It wasn't quite as much in evidence today, but, perhaps for the first time in their acquaintance, it bothered House . . . no, it irritated him. He was used to the fresh, masculine scent of his Jamie. Stacy's scent as well as her presence irritated him.

Stacy Warner had been his lover for several years. She had made the medical decision that had led to his permanent pain due to an infarction of the muscles in his leg. They had parted after the surgery and that's when James Wilson had returned. Wilson had put his own career on hold while he came to deal with the recovery of Greg House. It had been hell on earth for Wilson as well as House. House still wondered how either man had survived it. Why was Wilson still his friend? Anybody else would hate House for being the bastard that he had been during those months of - - not recovery, but improvement. Maybe that's why James Wilson was such a special person.

House tried to ignore Stacy. He had been in love with her, but she was now married. In fact, House had successfully treated her seriously ill husband. Stacy was Wilson's friend as well so it was understandable that she would want to know his condition, but WHY THE HELL WAS SHE HERE?

"Greg, how is he doing?"

The emotionless, scruffy face with the deep blue eyes stared at the dark-haired woman - - a woman that he had loved not so long ago. "Well, he's still unconscious, and he's alive - - that's about all, we're sure of."

Stacy's face grimaced slightly then took on a patient demeanor. "Greg, it was not your fault. Give yourself a break."

Silence.

There were times that silence was the most effective weapon, and Greg House used it very effectively. His cold eyed stare was also patented to self-destruct any target at which it was aimed, but Stacy Warner had lived with the man for several years and had learned to survive.

"Greg, you don't fool me. I know you're worried, and I know you're scared."

She stopped here as she noticed an icy flicker cross the magnificent blue eyes then she continued. "You need a break; I'll sit with him."

"Mrs. Warner, I appreciate your offer, but I am fine. I've used Dr. Wilson's bathroom, illegally no doubt and I – am – fine. Of course, I'm worried, and I know you're his friend, but could you please go take care of your husband and leave me to take care of . . ."

Here House stopped, not knowing how to finish. Certainly James Wilson was his friend - - his long time friend, his colleague, and his former lover, but what was the handsome doctor to him, NOW?

House had made the conscious decision to back off from any intimacy with Wilson several years before. Then Wilson had gotten married - - 3 times and that had helped . . . or, at least, House told himself that it had helped. Through all the years since, they had remained friends, but Wilson had become so much more.

The moment that Wilson had yelled at him about his failure to make a speech to save people's jobs, Wilson knew that his words, "I care" had not been adequate to cover the depth of his feelings for the man, standing in front of him. They had never gone beyond that even though Wilson had been the one to share the joy of the ride of the corvette and had continued to be his confidant in almost every situation that cropped up in their professional and private lives. And now . . . and now . . . James Wilson was paying the price for that devotion and loyalty.

52 hours ago, James Wilson had put his body in front of Greg House's and took the bullet meant for the sarcastic mouthed older man. Breaking free of his thoughts, House stared at Stacy Warner once again. "I'm fine, Stacy. Could you just leave us alone?"

Stacy nodded briefly and left the room and House. The afternoon wore on. He had been grateful to Cuddy for giving him leave. He would have taken it anyway, but it made it easier this way.

As if the thought gave way to the person, Lisa Cuddy walked into the room, for what must have been the hundredth time since the shooting. She examined Wilson's charts carefully without giving any indication that she even noticed House's presence. Finally, after studying the charts too carefully, she raised her dark hair and looked at House.

"Dr. House, I want you to go home and rest for the remainder of the day. We'll let you know when Dr. Wilson wakes up."

House felt a wave of hysteria flow over him. Now, she wants to get rid of me. What is it with these women?

"Dr. Cuddy, you can put me on administrative leave or sick leave or any other type of leave that you want, but you can't tell me what to do. I'm staying."

Cuddy looked over at the unconscious man, saying, "That's not going to help him wake up any faster. His body needs rest and so do you. Go."

"No."

"Dr. House, I can call Security, and they can escort you home, if you push me too far."

"Dr. Cuddy, you can try, and then tomorrow there will be a wonderful article in the Princeton newspapers about the lack of feeling demonstrated by this hospital."

"Dr. House, are you really feeling that bad about Wilson or are you just feeling guilty about the cause of the shooting?"

As soon as Cuddy said it, she knew that she had made a mistake. The two of them had been intimate at one time, but that was long ago. She had dared to tread on forbidden ground and now she would be forced to backtrack to save the day.

Before House could react to the words, Cuddy blurted out, "Okay, okay, do as you want; you always do. Stay here until you collapse; then we'll find you a bed to rest in."

With that she walked out of the room. House continued to stand with his back to the bed in the room, staring out the door. Was Cuddy right? Is that why I'm paying this penance right now – am I guilty of causing my best friend to be violated by a speeding bullet into his body?

Suddenly, a prickly feeling swept over Greg House as if he knew he was being watched, turning quickly, his eyes rested on the frail looking body in the bed across the room. Wilson's eyes were open slightly. There were only slits, but there was comprehension in them.

House smiled hesitantly as he limped towards the bed, "Well, it looks like you're back with us."

Wilson said nothing; the voice was garbled and his eyes had difficulty focusing. His lips and throat were extremely dry due to the respirator which was breathing for him. He didn't speak. He wasn't even sure if he could. Fine thing when a doctor didn't even know something like that.

The person standing in front of him continued to speak, but Wilson was still unable to comprehend what was being said. He wanted to ask a question, but his eyes became too heavy to hold open. Within seconds his lids were closed, and he returned to a more comfortable sleep.

Greg House closed his eyes in gratitude. Standing staring at his friend with a strange look in his eye, he finally noticed his trembling hands. Feeling totally exhausted, he turned and left the room, resolving to act upon the decision he had been thinking about for the last 3 days.

End of Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Evening At Luigi's, Part 3

By: lbc

Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: M

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these characters, but I don't

Summary: Wilson gets some news.

James Wilson was finally able to sit up in a hospital bed. His stomach still hurt, but he could make it to the bathroom on his own, and he could endure the continuing pain of the wound without constant pain killers.

It had been more than a week since he had been shot, and something . . . something was going on, and he didn't like it. He had had visits from everybody, even his soon-to-be ex-wife but, as expected, that had not gone very well.

It was clear that Julie had been concerned for him, but when she had discovered that he was recovering, she was relieved primarily because now she knew her alimony was secure. Wilson had not included any of his wives in his will. I may be dumb enough to marry them, but not enough to leave them money, dependent upon my death. That had been his thought, and all three of the bloodsucking vipers lived up to his expectations.

If the truth be known, there was only one person in the entire world that he trusted . . . trusted absolutely, and for the last week that person had disappeared from Wilson's life. Each and every day as he had endured the pain of a bullet hole in his abdomen and the "care" of the hospital staff, he had looked for a certain scruffy face with enormous blue eyes to appear in the doorway and yet, they had never appeared.

Never again would Wilson doubt patients who complained about being ill or injured. Being ill was bad enough, but the long days filled with pain, seemingly cut off from the world and sanity had made telling inroads into James Wilson's psyche. He was neither naïve nor blind to hospital life, but now that he was "living it" in glorious color, he realized how unaware he had been of the daily life of a hospital.

He had not longed for visitors. In fact, he had had his share and more. Even some of his former patients came to visit once the fact of his shooting had made the rounds. Perhaps the worst was the interrogation by the police, demanding his account of what had occurred outside of Luigi's more than a week ago.

Wilson had planned such a wonderful evening; he was even going to pay the bill. As usual House was being his sarcastic self after both men had put in an 18 hour day. Luigi's had always been special to them with its cosy, friendly atmosphere. It was probably the one place in Princeton where Greg House had never uttered a sarcastic remark. Well, not until that night.

The police had asked him to describe his assailant, but he couldn't. How do you describe a non-descript man who was dressed in shabby clothes and smelled bad? He had not really even seen his face, but he had seen the gun as it was pulled out of a ripped pocket. He could still hear the faint echo of House's acerbic wit blurting, "Ah, the land of the great unwashed!" And then Wilson could only remember the gun, fear, and pain.

Now that Wilson thought about it from the safety and security of a bed at Princeton-Plainsboro, he felt that fear again. Strange, at the time, he had not been afraid for himself. It had been his scruffy friend who had seemed to draw the ire of the non-descript man . . . or that's what he had thought, but the police questions had revived his memories slightly, and now he wasn't so sure.

The evening had started so well, even though both men had been tired. Wilson could see the lines of pain etched in House's beautiful face. He was taking more Vicodin than he should but wouldn't listen to anyone. Wilson had hoped that the hellacious week that House had gone through with withdrawal to win that bet with Cuddy would have done some good, but . . . stubbornness thy name is Gregory House MD.

Wilson heard a noise. Secretly hoping it was his best friend, his dark eyes dimmed slightly when he realized that it was Eric Foreman. Foreman was one of House's "ducklings", a brilliant doctor who often did not see eye to eye with his notoriously moody boss. It was James Wilson, however, who truly walked the tightrope in his relationship with Gregory House. Colleague, friend, confidant, fellow student, and . . . lover. Wilson had been all those and more, and now he was holding onto House, his friend by the skin of his teeth. He had not seen House in over a week. His friend had deserted him while he lay in the hospital, possibly dying.

Where was House?

Breaking out of his reverie, Wilson smiled at Foreman. The man had been a regular visitor since Wilson had woken from his coma, as had the other ducklings. "How's it goin', Doc?"

Wilson sighed, trying to put some life into his voice. "I'm never going to demand that a patient eat this food, ever again."

Foreman smiled nervously. Now that was a fairly innocuous comment, thought Wilson.

What's caused him to be so on edge?

"Yeah, it doesn't take long to get tired of the assembly line stuff. Well, I just wanted to see how you're doing. Got to go."

"Thanks for stopping . . . Is your boss keepin' you busy?"

"Cuddy? Nah, we just stay out of her way."

"No, I meant the good-looking one with the 10 o'clock shadow."

If it could have, Foreman's face would have gone pale, but he held his ground by saying, "Well, you know us; we're always busy." With that, Foreman took off as if he were being chased by Cuddy.

Where the hell is House?

Wilson rested his head on the pillow which was lying on the slightly tilted head of the bed. His mid-section was still too tender for the young doctor to sit up straight, and frankly, at the moment, he was feeling too tired to talk or even think much about his caustic friend. Some days he wondered why he even put up with House. What did House give to him? Vogler's demand that Wilson be fired for defending House still burned in his memory.

House had not asked him to resign, but he had taken it for granted that Wilson would protect House's job by voting no, and it had almost cost Wilson everything. That night, Wilson had admitted that there were only two things that mattered to him, and he had just sacrificed one of them for the other one. Why is Greg House my friend? Am I so desperate for friends that I hang onto his friendship, accepting anything and everything that he throws at me?

Wilson sighed, a shiver going through him as if a goose had walked over his grave, as his grandmother had often quoted. Looking at the small clock on the stand next to him, he calculated the eight days, 22 hours, and some minutes since he had been shot.

Where was House?

It was nearing time for the evening meal. The only lucky thing about being shot in the abdomen was that it limited the concoctions that the kitchen could serve him. No Baby Beef Drumsticks for him - - instead it was baby food delicacies full of vitamins, proteins, and mush that passed his way. Rubbing his face in frustration, he tried to remind himself of how lucky he was to be alive to eat anything. Hearing the rattle of the food cart, Wilson put on his most accommodating face, his face falling as fast as a soufflé when he saw Allison Cameron carry in his tray.

The woman had designs on House, and while Wilson had put a good face on it, he wasn't sure what Cameron saw in House, but then what did House see in Cameron? She was years younger than House and not really his type, but then who was his type? Certainly not a tall, brown-haired, reasonably good looking department head who had risked his career for a man who would not bend his integrity even to save . . . what?

That was the real trouble with Gregory House. No one knew what was really important to him. He would bend rules, break laws, suborn perjury, and do a lot more to save lives, but what would he do in the name of friendship - - certainly not get emotional. Even when they had been intimate so many years ago, Wilson wasn't sure how much of himself House was really allowing Wilson to see of him. You would think that your lover would know you better than anyone, wouldn't you?

All that thought got Wilson, however, was the memory of Stacy Warner and her fall from grace. It did, however, return Wilson to the present and the puzzled face of Allison Cameron, who was looking at him like he was suffering a seizure.

"Dr. Wilson, are you all right?"

Wilson smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. "Oh sure, thanks so much for bringing . . . dinner. You didn't have to."

"Well, I was just going off duty, and I thought I would say hello."

Acknowledging the food, Wilson smiled again and asked, "What? Your boss is letting you go home this early? No patients who need the world's greatest diagnostician or you all?"

At best, Cameron's face was pale and slightly insipid but the question had obviously thrown her. Her paleness became reddish flush and her demeanor spoke of extreme nervousness. She tried to tough it out, but didn't do as good a job as Foreman. "Oh yeah, we've all been on our best behavior so we're free to go. Glad you're okay. See you tomorrow, Dr. Wilson."

Allison Cameron made her way out the door as if Margaret Mitchell had written Gone with the Wind with her in mind. Absentmindedly Wilson took a spoonful of the gelatine- like substance and put it into his mouth. He stared into space for awhile then came to a decision. Picking up the room phone, he asked for Dr. Lisa Cuddy.

Within minutes, the overworked, much put upon (by House mostly now that Vogler was gone) Dr. Lisa Cuddy appeared at Wilson's door. She looked tired and concerned, but mostly she looked apprehensive - - perhaps it was because of Wilson's brief conversation with her.

"Well, Dr. Wilson, you certainly have been learning how to get what you want, haven't you? Demanding to see me in five minutes or less or you will start walking around the corridors mooning patients, is certainly effective."

Wilson smiled boyishly. He had learned from the best how to be obnoxious and once in awhile, it came in handy. Now that he had Dr. Cuddy in front of him, he was prepared to be magnanimous.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Cuddy, but when I buzzed your secretary she tried to put me off. I guess I've been around House too long. I really am sorry."

Wilson stopped as he noticed that something he had said had disturbed Cuddy. This was the woman who did verbal sparring with House on a daily basis and usually held her own, what had he said that bothered her so much?

"Is there something wrong, Doctor?"

The tiny woman frowned slightly, shooting back, "You were the one who called me, remember?"

Feeling too tired to spar, Wilson got to the point. "All right, here it is. Where's House? I've been here over a week and while I've seen God and everybody else, I haven't seen House, where is he? You didn't suspend him for dropping his drawers in front of the Hospital League Tea or something, did you?"

Cuddy forced a smile, gritting her teeth quietly. "No, I have not suspended the good doctor House, and I am not his keeper. I cannot force him to come visit you, but he was here when . . . uh . . . when you were first brought in. Knowing House, well . . ."

Cuddy stopped, obviously at a loss for words. She stopped, and Wilson waited . . . and waited, but the hospital administrator was not forthcoming so once again Wilson bit the bullet (no pun intended) and blurted out the question, "Where is House?"

For the third time that day, Wilson saw a member of the Princeton-Plainsboro staff go pale or red in the face. Lisa Cuddy, who had faced down Vogler and won, was now shuffling her feet as if in total disarray. Finally, her head lifted as she took a deep breath and stared straight into Wilson's questioning eyes.

"All right, Dr. Wilson. I guess you, more than anyone, have a right to know. Dr. House turned in his resignation as a staff physician and department head five days ago. It was effective immediately. I have not seen him since."

End of part 3


	4. Chapter 4a

Title: Evening At Luigi's, Part 4a

By: lbc

Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: M

Genre: slash

Note: Part 4 completes the story.

Summary: Wilson gets more bad news

James Wilson was recovering. The pain in his abdomen was considerably less. He was off all the machines, and his need for pain medicine was infrequent, but that didn't help the dread and uncertainty that he felt down deep.

When he had heard Lisa Cuddy say that Dr. Greg House had resigned, he had tried to get out of bed and head over to House's apartment. Unfortunately, he was still hooked up to some equipment and didn't get very far. It was pretty embarrassing when the 110 pound Lisa Cuddy was able to subdue and return the ailing James Wilson to the recently departed bed.

Wilson continued to gasp for several minutes as nausea, pain, and exhaustion all vied for domination in his body. On top of it all, he had to endure Cuddy's tirade and threats to tie him down physically if he tried that again. Wilson's brown eyes blazed at the small woman, but his gasping voice did little to intimidate her.

Cuddy maintained that House's note had given no cause for his decision. Yes, she had tried to phone the man and had even gone to his apartment to see him. There had been no answer. When Drs. Chase and Foreman had heard about the resignation, they too had bearded the lion's den but had been unsuccessful. No one knew if Allison Cameron had visited the recently departed, and she wasn't talking.

Through all of Cuddy's tirade, Wilson laid there, gritting his teeth and planning the demise of that scruffy faced, caustic-tempered hellion who had made Wilson's life miserable for almost 20 years.

Finally, Lisa Cuddy wound down and departed, giving orders to one and all, in Wilson's hearing to keep watch over the maniac in room 231.

That had been 3 days ago. There had still been no contact with Greg House, and no one had seen his limping body, although several people, supposedly in the know, swore they saw a manifestation of his cane, beating at Edward Vogler's parking place sign, until that too disappeared.

Meanwhile, James Wilson waited, but he wasn't sure for what. He still had visitors, but the length of their visits lasted less and less as Wilson's temper grew shorter. No one at the hospital could honestly recall, in living memory, James Wilson being so short of civility as he was after learning of Greg House's seeming abandonment.

A week and a half after the shooting, Wilson was, once again, demanding to be released, threatening to sign his own release papers, and enduring another visit from the ducklings: this time all three of them.

They seemed to be at loose ends since their overseer or whatever House was, was no longer there to make their lives interesting and often miserable.

"Why don't you go pound on House's door again? He has to be inside. Maybe he ran out of Vicodin and is incapacitated," demanded Wilson.

Eric Foreman raised his eyebrows, "Are you kiddin', Doc? The pharmacist swore that House got a full load just before the heavy stuff came down. He's got enough for a month or more."

Chase in his Aussie accent quickly chimed in, "I think you could have found a better phrase than 'full load', Foreman. He does give us a lot of crap though. Been kind of peaceful without him."

Allison Cameron scrunched up her face into a grimace, a look that she seemed to have a lot when she was around her colleagues. "Maybe Dr. House just needs to be alone."

"And how would you know, dear? Besides, you don't exactly practice what you preach, do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Saw you goin' into his apartment building once when I tried to see him."

Wilson laid there stunned. In a whisper, he asked Cameron, "Were you able to see him?"

Cameron's look of consternation said a lot then with a slight whine, she replied, "Well, not the first time."

"You mean you have seen him? Why didn't you tell us?"

"Well, he asked me not to. I didn't stay very long; we just talked for a little while, and then I left."

Cameron continued to defend herself, but James Wilson was no longer listening. He had teased House about having a crush on Cameron, but now it looked like it was true. He could sit and talk to that . . . that female, but he couldn't even stop by and see if his friend was all right.

Wilson's thoughts were interrupted when he heard Chase jibe Cameron with the words, "Well, if you're so close to him, why don't you go back over there and ask him why he resigned?"

By this time, Allison Cameron was totally fed up with being the target. Losing her temper, she allowed it to flare up and burst out with, "I don't have to ask him; he's already told me!"

The room became silent; Cameron had the grace to blush and look embarrassed as she realized what she had said. Her face took on a look of sympathy and regret as she turned to Wilson. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to say anything. I promised to keep my mouth shut."

Wilson's beautiful brown eyes looked desolate but soon hardened. If House wants her, fine, but what has that got to do with me?

Foreman and Chase, almost as one, queried, "What are you talking about? What aren't you supposed to talk about?"

In her best, soft girlish voice, full of regret and sympathy, Allison Cameron replied, "I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson, but I'm only repeating what Dr. House said. I asked him if he was going to come back to PPTH, and . . . well . . . he hesitated a minute and then said, "Not if Dr. Wilson is there."

No one saw the look of glee in Cameron's eyes since both Chase and Foreman were staring at each other in amazement. James Wilson had closed his eyes, in despair.

End of part 4a


	5. Chapter 4b

Title: Evening At Luigi's, Part 4b

By: lbc

Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: M

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these characters, but I don't.

Summary: Wilson confronts House.

**_"Not if Doctor Wilson is there."_**

James Wilson kept hearing those words in his mind. The second he heard them, it was like a knife . . . or a bullet . . . slashed through his body. The pain from the bullet entering his abdominal area was fading now, but this new pain took his breath away. He had been in the hospital for two weeks and was soon to be released. He wasn't ready yet, but he knew that it was only a matter of time now. What was he going to do?

It was perfectly clear that he could not immediately return to duty. He would have some sick leave time, but did he really want to come back? He felt so numb . . . so cold . . . inside. He supposed that was perfectly natural after being shot and near death, but James Wilson was also a realist. He knew that the true reason for his despair was that Greg House had virtually abandoned him and then resigned, because of Wilson's presence.

Sighing, Wilson laid his hand tenderly over his wound. Since Allison Cameron had uttered those devastating words, Wilson had refused to see most visitors. His excuse always was hidden in the cloak of exhaustion, but it was only an excuse. He knew that he was tired . . . drained of all feeling and energy. Why should that be? There were entire years when he had not seen Greg House. He had survived.

Remembering back to the five years that House and Stacy Warner had been together, the two friends had been virtual strangers, living on different coasts. Nevertheless, after the devastation of the infarction had wreaked its havoc, it had been James Wilson who had picked up the pieces.

And what do I get for it? Just more sarcasm and ridicule from House!

Wilson closed his eyes; a pounding headache diverting his thoughts momentarily.

Basically, James Wilson was an honest man who recognized his need for Greg House's company. His thoughts turned again towards happier times: the wonderful Christmas they had spent together; the ride in the corvette; the days and nights that they had spent in bed together while they were still in Med School. That was the Greg House that he liked to remember, but he was being foolish and sentimental . . . something Greg House would have levered a new burst of sarcasm against. No, Greg House had made his decision: he didn't need his friend, Wilson, and he certainly didn't Princeton-Plainsboro. Those bitter months when House was recovering from the loss of Stacy Warner and the infarction had irreparably damaged their relationship, and only now it was apparent to the willingly blind Wilson.

Feeling drowsiness slip over him, Wilson vowed that no longer would Greg House have the power to hurt him. His heart was frozen; his mind barricaded against emotion as forcefully as House's whole life had been all these years. If the scruffy-faced man who had been his friend preferred Allison Cameron, then so be it.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWH

Several hours later something woke the sleeping patient. It was just a sound, but in Wilson's tired mind, it was instantly recognizable. It was the click of a cane. Telling himself that it had been a dream, Wilson continued to lay in vague repose. Then he heard the sound again.

Reluctantly, the injured man opened one brown eye, attempting to focus on the hospital room. Swinging his line of sight towards the doorway, his still unfocused eyes spotted a hunched over figure, standing in the doorway. It was Gregory House, sometime friend and lover.

Wilson said nothing. Frankly, he was unable to do so because his throat had dried up. Finally, after a brief struggle, he found his voice. "Is it the end of the world?"

The blistering blue eyes stared straight at the man in the bed. "I've come to talk."

Oh great, now he wants to talk. "That's strange; what about?"

"I've heard that you're getting out in a few days; I thought . . . well, I thought you might come over and stay with me until you've got your strength back."

While House walked into the room, Wilson had a moment to think. If possible, his heart froze even more. The very idea of spending several days in the apartment of his former friend, while House continued to flaunt Allison Cameron in front of him, almost made Wilson vomit. There were icicles in Wilson's next words.

"Thanks for the offer, Doctor House, but I'm going to my own apartment."

A flicker of some emotion crossed House's blue eyes as he heard the formality in the words, but he said nothing for several seconds. Finally, he replied, "Let me drive you to your apartment then."

Briefly remembering the ride in the corvette, Wilson fought his need to yell at the man in front of him. "No thanks, I've already made other arrangements." Waiting several seconds and then timing the continuation of his words perfectly, he continued, "If that's all Doctor House, I was asleep, and I'm still kind of tired."

House continued to stand there. He seemed nervous and not exactly like the caustic character that Wilson had known for so many years. Finally, the scruffy faced man whispered, "Jamie, we need to talk."

Jamie! Jamie! Oh that's rich - - that's really rich. He thinks he can say that endearment to me, and I'll fall in line, just like usual. Well, I may have had my gut throttled, but my brain is still intact.

"Doctor House, it seems strange that you would be here now, asking to talk. I seem to remember times in the last two weeks that would have been much better, but you failed to take advantage of those. Besides, you've obviously made some decisions that you didn't bother to make me aware of, before now, so I really don't see any reason to do so now."

The brown-haired patient could see the exhaustion and concern in the man across the room, but he was determined not to weaken at this point. He saw himself as the injured party - - both literally and figuratively - - and, by God, Greg House was going to have to do better than that.

"You're . . . you're talking about my resignation?"

Talk about the obvious! "Yes, but it doesn't make any difference now. You've made your decision. If you're here to tell me about it, you're too late. I've been informed . . . completely informed, so you've been saved the need to rub it in my face."

At that point, a brief look of confusion crossed the handsome older man's face, but it quickly disappeared as he studied the anger in Wilson's face. "I . . . thought we ought to talk; it's been awhile and . . ."

Those words were definitely not the ones to say; they were like a spark to a piece of fuse. James Wilson erupted, "Doctor House, you have not been here in two weeks. It seems perfectly obvious to one and all that you are not interested in my health or the concerns of this hospital or anyone else. Thank you for your . . . "visit" . . . let's see him top that sarcasm I really need my rest; so I'll say good-bye."

Greg House backed up in the face James Wilson's wrath. As he backed out the door, he stared briefly at his friend, then said, "I'm not going to apologize. I'm sorry you were shot, but my decision is for the best. Get well."

With those words, Gregory House left; the clicking of his cane still heard in the distance.

If James Wilson had still been attached to that multitude of machines, they would have brought a gaggle of personnel to query his condition. His heart was racing; his head was pounding, and his body felt as if he had been subjected to 5,000 volts. He had just thrown his best friend . . . his only friend . . . out of his room. He had not played Greg House's game . . . perhaps, for the first time in 20 years. Why wasn't he feeling elation . . . and independence?

Why was there a single drop of moisture flowing down his handsome face?

End of part 4b – one to go


	6. Chapter 4c

Title: Evening At Luigi's, part 4c

By: lbc

Pairing: Wilson/House

Rating: M for content and language

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; wish I did.

Note: This concludes the story.

Summary: Wilson leaves the hospital.

James Wilson's eyes were still open after a sleepless night. He kept seeing the pain in his friend's beautiful blue eyes as Wilson's words had bid him to leave. House had never been demonstrative. He had erected barricade after barricade against pain and hurt, and no one had understood that better than Wilson, himself.

Hadn't he been the one who had gone to Allison Cameron and begged her to be careful before she had left on her "date" with House? Wilson's fear that House would be hurt and never open up to anyone again had proven very real. Having Stacy Warner at the hospital had demonstrated his fears. The day that House sat in front of the class discussing three cases, including his own, still haunted Wilson. What it must have taken for his friend to have revealed what had occurred - - and to strangers? And now . . . now, he, James Wilson, had stuck the knife in further and had virtually rebuffed House's overtures.

Wilson's mind was in turmoil, and his body was in pain. He needed pain killers but refused to take them, because he was leaving the hospital tomorrow - - actually in just a few hours, and he wanted his mind clear and functioning.

Bright and early that morning, James Wilson put his plan into effect, notifying the staff and administration that he was releasing himself from the hospital. His doctor arrived, rather quickly for him, immediately recommending that Wilson stay a few more days until some additional tests could be done. It was to no avail.

Then the "big guns" were sent forth. Dr. Lisa Cuddy stormed into Wilson's room as he was getting ready to leave and gave him orders to get back into his bed, but once again the mission failed.

Even the male contingency of the ducklings tried to use their influence to keep one of their favorite doctors from doing anything foolish, but when they saw his determination, they offered to transport him to his apartment.

Wilson nodded in grateful acceptance because he had planned to use a taxi, but he was already feeling tired and his stomach was still painful. Therefore, in less than an hour after seeing his doctor, James Wilson was on his way home. Foreman and Chase escorted him into his apartment, offering to stay for awhile and help him settle in. Wilson politely thanked the two men, but dismissed them. He badly needed to be alone.

Collapsing on his sofa, Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't feel very well, but told himself that he just needed to rest. He was home; he could rest, and maybe . . . just maybe forget - - for awhile - - the wreck that was his life. Fortunately for the exhausted man, he was not aware, yet, of the phone call that Lisa Cuddy had made.

The exhausted doctor carefully lay down on his huge sofa. It was comfortable and frankly, he didn't feel capable of making the trip into his bedroom. His eyes became heavy and within minutes, he was asleep.

Wilson didn't know how long he had been that way, but a pounding sound suddenly inundated him. At first, he thought it was inside his head as a continuing headache burst forth at his temples, but too soon, he realized that it was not his own headache, but another headache, and he was pounding on his front door, demanding to be let in.

Almost groaning out loud, Wilson forced himself to sit up. He held his head as the fury named Gregory House continued to pound loudly on the fragile surface of his door.

Wilson managed to get up and drag himself over to the door. Steeling himself, he placed one hand on the door, helping to balance himself. "House will you go away. The neighbors will be calling the police to arrest a crazy man."

The pounding stopped, but a roar followed. "Well, I think you're smart enough to figure out how you can stop this noise, can't you? Open the damn door!"

Wilson had heard Greg House use that tone of voice many times, rarely against him, except for the hell after the infarction, but something inside the tired man withered. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of trying to "get along" with his moody, sarcastic friend. He was the injured party here - - not House. Why should James Wilson always take the abuse?

Bending to the inevitable and the immovable object, James Wilson opened the door. The raving, blue-eyed beast on the other side of the door quickly returned to civilized behavior, but the fury in the sad blue eyes spoke volumes. Limping badly, House rushed through the door as if he feared that Wilson would slam it shut on him.

"What the hell, were you thinking, you moron? I saw your charts and reports. You should be in the hospital, right this minute!" House stood only a few inches from his friend, fairly seething and bristling.

James Wilson pulled himself up as best as he could and smiled slightly, "Well, Dr. House, welcome to my humble abode; how are you this fine day?"

Wilson's obvious sarcasm stopped his rampaging friend momentarily but only momentarily. One dark eyebrow shot up as two cool blue eyes stared penetratingly at Wilson. "Don't give me that, Wilson. You know I'm right. Sit down before you fall down."

For a second the injured man was going to argue then realized that it was futile so he backed up, collapsing gratefully onto the sofa. Within seconds his wrist was captured in a capable hand so that his pulse could be counted. A rapid but thorough exam ensued.

Finally, the scruffy faced devil dropped Wilson's hand after giving it what some would call a caress. House looked at his friend and said, "You know, you're damn lucky. This stunt could have started you bleeding again. Haven't you got any sense?"

Wilson's sad brown eyes looked up at his friend. "Yeah, well you've told me I don't, many times, especially after my last two weddings, but I guess hanging around you all these years is more proof, isn't it?"

For a moment, House was ready to retaliate then he grimaced briefly and sat down next to his friend. "We really are a pair, aren't we? We need to talk."

Wilson was not looking at his friend; he was holding his forehead in his hand. It had been a very long day already, and it wasn't even noon. He shook his head; too tired to argue; too tired to think. He felt numb and ached all over. He had lost something precious, and frankly he didn't know what he was going to do now.

He was even too tired to pull away when the hand that his body had known so well . . . so intimately years before, began to rub the nape of his neck where the muscles were knotted in tension.

For a second Wilson thought he imagined it when House whispered, "Why am I always hurting you?"

Raising his head, despairing brown eyes looked at the scruffy face that seemed even more bearded than usual. Wilson was fighting to keep his emotions under control. He could not break now or he would be back under the spell that Greg House had had over him since that party almost 20 years before. That night the older man, in his last year of medical school, had made his move on the younger man just entering the same school. For one year they had been lovers and then it had all ended as Greg House went onto to his new career.

Miraculously they had kept in touch, and they had stayed close, but friends only now. And here they were, sitting in Wilson's apartment, their friendship badly strained due to what?

For James Wilson, the stress had developed from House's abandonment of him while in hospital, and his flaunting of his new companionship with Allison Cameron. What caused House's stress was up for conjecture. House was an enigma. Very few people had taken the trouble to try and breach House's walls. Stacy had done it, apparently Cameron had done it, and maybe I've done it, but no more and do I even want to continue to do so?

By this time Wilson's handsome face was lined with exhaustion and extremely pale. House gave a grimace and whispered, "You need to be in bed. Have you eaten anything?"

Wilson shook his head. "Just wanted to get out of there."

House stood up, holding out his hand to help his friend stand. The younger man took the hand warily, not sure if he could stand otherwise. "Thanks."

House walked very near to the younger man, escorting him into the comfortable bedroom, acting as if he was prepared to catch him if Wilson would lose his balance. Wilson kept walking past his bed, turning slightly to indicate his need for the bathroom.

Minutes later, James Wilson was in bed. He had removed most of his clothes but had not removed his T-shirt or briefs because he felt strangely uneasy around Greg House, the man that he had enjoyed stripping in front of so many years before. Time definitely does not heal all wounds does it, Wilson?

The slender man stood at the foot of the bed, looking at his friend with concern and something that was almost impossible to read. "You relax. I'll prepare you one of House's famous omelets so that you can build up your strength."

Wilson's face immediately contorted into a grimace. "Not one of those! Would you please remember that I'm a sick man and not dump a whole bottle of Tabasco onto the omelet? My stomach lining hasn't recovered since the last time."

"Complain! Complain! Complain! Besides, you know that it was only half a bottle of Tabasco, the last time. You always exaggerate."

House winked as he left to do battle with the omelet. Wilson closed his eyes and relaxed as best he could. He knew that this was just postponing the inevitable, but frankly he didn't care. This might be the last time that he and Greg House would ever see each other.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

Several minutes later, the dozing man heard the rattle of dishes. Opening his soft brown eyes, he studied Greg House, who was standing near the bed. A plate sat on the table near by with a perfect omelet on it. Wilson smiled, unknowingly looking delectable, sensual, and very edible.

"Hmm, must have fallen asleep. That looks good. Thanks."

"No problem. Eat up."

For the next couple of minutes, there was silence in the room. House sat in the chair near by, watching his friend eat as Wilson ate and watched his friend. Finally, the plate was clean. Wiping his delicious mouth with a thoughtfully provided napkin, Wilson asked shyly, "Why are you here, House?"

For a moment, House said nothing then, seemingly trying to control his usual sarcasm, answered, "Do you think it's unusual for me to want to check on my best friend?"

Wilson hesitated, "Well, normally, I would have said no, but you've avoided me like the plague for over two weeks so why are you making the effort now?"

"Yeah, there is that; isn't there? Well, I didn't say that I always did the logical thing, did I?"

Wilson placed the plate back on the table very carefully, primarily to give himself a small amount of time to think. "Greg, I know why you resigned; I was told. I think I deserved some explanation from you, but that's by the board now. It's obvious that we don't communicate any more. Whatever your feelings are . . . I admit I don't understand, but I can't take it anymore. I should never have come to Princeton so I think it would be better if I leave; you've got others to be with now so . . ."

James Wilson stopped. He had never . . . ever . . . seen that look on Greg House's face. It contained consternation, despair, fury, and something so deep that Wilson felt like hiding under the blankets covering his bed.

"What the hell are you talking about? I'm the one who almost got you killed. I'm the one who had to open my big mouth so that . . . that scum shot you. Why should you leave? I'm guilty . . . guilty, do you hear? God! I know everybody else thinks that I'm a real asshole and sarcastic as hell, but do you think that I can't take responsibility for what I did to you?"

Wilson's jaw dropped open. He had never seen House like this. What was he talking about? House started to limp towards the door but stopped when he heard Wilson's words, "You are an egotistical moron! That bastard didn't shoot me because of what you said; he shot me because of what I SAID!" Wilson was breathless after those words. He laid back against the propped up pillows, waiting for House to say something.

House turned slowly, looking totally confused. "What . . . what are you saying? I was the one who said something about the great unwashed."

Wilson could tell that House was truly confused, but he was unrelenting in his condemnation of House's assumptions. Trying to sit up slightly, he took a deep breath and then let loose, "That's so like you. You barricade yourself behind your own assumptions. If you had bothered to listen, to check, to do what any NORMAL human being would do, you would have found out that the police managed to track down the shooter. He did NOT shoot me because of what you said. He heard me say something about the place really stinking, and HE THOUGHT that I said that he stunk! That's why he shot and that's why he aimed at me!"

Now, Wilson was really breathless after that lengthy tirade. He collapsed back on the pillows, gasping slightly. House stood there stunned. Shaking his head as if to make sure he wasn't dreaming, House asked in a whisper, "How . . . how did you find that out?"

Wilson shook his brown locks, "I don't know how you ever got to be such a great diagnostician, if you always jump to conclusions like that. I talked to the police, you moron. Well really, they interrogated me. For awhile they even hinted that they suspected you of doing the deed, but they finally rounded up the guy after he tried to rob a convenience store or something. He told them, and they told me."

House sat down in the chair nearby, rubbing his forehead. "I was so sure. I kept hearing myself saying those words and then the gun and the flame and the odor . . . 'M sorry, Jamie."

Wilson closed his eyes; his headache was really pounding now. "You know, House. It hasn't been easy being your friend."

Sad blue eyes looked up at the beautiful man. "Yeah, I know. Am I still your friend or have I blown that too?"

A few days ago, James Wilson would have rushed to have reassured his friend, but now he hesitated; he kept seeing Allison Cameron when she announced the reason that House had resigned. "House, are you telling me that you resigned because you felt guilt over me being shot?"

For a moment, House contemplated lying; then he shook his head and replied, "No, that wasn't really the reason."

In that moment, James Wilson's heart shattered; what he had thought all along was the truth. Finding some degree of courage he asked, "Then what Cameron said was true?"

House was not looking at his friend; he was twiddling his cane and looking at the carpet as he nodded his head. If James Wilson could have, he would have screamed at the top of his lungs, instead, he whispered, "I see. Well, I guess that's it then. I really think that it would be better if I am the one to leave. What with my wife getting a divorce, I feel like moving on anyway so let's just . . . "

House launched himself onto the bed. When House thought about it later, he could not remember how he had been able to launch his partially crippled body that far, but he had done it and now he was sitting within inches of his one time lover.

"What the hell are you talking about? I resigned because of you, yes, but it wasn't because I care about Allison Cameron. Why would I care about her?"

House took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He lifted his left hand to Wilson's face, gently caressing it. He whispered, "Listen very carefully; I am going to say this just once. I have only loved one woman in my life, and you know damn well how I handled that, but I have only ever been in love once . . . once, do you hear and that hasn't changed in almost 20 years. I do not want you to leave Princeton or to leave me in the clutching hands of that simpering woman. She is a fine doctor but not the person I want to spend my life with."

Both of Wilson's eyebrows shot up. He was speechless. House could see that he had Wilson's full attention so he continued. "I did say to her that I would not return if you were still present, but I didn't mean it the way that she obviously thought. God, that's why I hate having to explain things."

Greg House moved carefully so that he was now sitting next to his friend. Carefully, picking up one of Wilson's hands and holding it, he said, "Jamie, it was my fault. She said that she would miss me and asked if I would return. I told her that I wouldn't if you were present. I guess she figured that I was trying to say that I didn't like you any more or something."

Wilson squeezed his friend's hand. "I told you that she's got a crush on you, and I thought you liked her too." Sad, hesitant brown eyes looked up at House, but Wilson was determined not to ruin these moments.

"Yeah, one date and she's gone overboard. I'm sorry, Jamie. I've been in love with you since med school. I never really wanted anyone else, but well, with you married and everything, I found Stacy, but that's all over so I just couldn't stand the idea of staying at Princeton, knowing that I had gotten you shot and then loving you and nothing coming from it. That's why I resigned."

"I . . . I . . . don't know what to say. I thought sure when you didn't visit me those 18 days that you . . ." Wilson dropped his head, unable to finish. After a moment two slender fingers raised his chin.

"You really are a moron," A brief brush of House's lips across the slightly sweaty forehead took the sting out of the words. Pulling the lightly clad body into his arms, House mumbled against Wilson's hair, "Why would I want a woman who simpers and is even more insecure than I am?"

Wilson smiled. "We really are a pair, aren't we? I figured that after you threw me over after Med School that the best I could hope for was friendship, and I have to admit we've really strained that lately."

Concern leaped into the blue eyes. "Have we . . . have I . . . strained it too much? I know I've been a real bastard, but you are important to me. I thought you understood when I told you it matters after the Vogler fiasco. I do that a lot, don't I? Expecting everybody to understand and accommodate me?"

Looking up into the face he loved, James Wilson smiled. "That you do, Doctor House, but we still love you, at least, I do, but then I have been classified as certifiable." Before he could say anymore, a monster yawn issued forth from his mouth. Laughing slightly, he whispered as he laid his head on House's shoulder, "Mmmmm. Sorry, those pills I took are catching up to me."

"Some doctor you are; you didn't take any pills; I slipped them into your omelet - - just mistimed them. Now, you close your eyes and take a nap, and I'll clean up this mess."

"Mmmmmm, no, want you with me. As your doctor and friend, I am giving you a prescription for bed rest."

"Hmmm, I don't see any prescription, Doctor Wilson."

Sleepily, Wilson opened his eyes to slits. "Oh, well here it is now." Wilson gently kissed his friend, following it up with a longer kiss. "Now, get undressed, take two pills and definitely call me in the morning."

House looked at his friend with a consuming affection. "It's only 1:00 pm; I don't think I can last until morning."

This time only one eye opened. "Hmmm, feeling randy, are we?"

House kissed the enticing nose. "No, you're the one with all the marriages, you satyr. I was talking about hunger. I figure we'll be starving by tomorrow morning."

Seconds before James Wilson fell asleep in his lover's arms, he whispered, "That's okay; call Luigi's and have them deliver; we'll finally get our evening there, even if it is a bit late."

Gently, moving his friend from his arms, Greg House did just that. He called Luigi's and arranged for a delivery several hours hence then removed his clothes and crawled in beside the man he had loved for so long, pulling him into his arms, before he slept.

THE END


End file.
